Too, Too Solid Flesh

by Nick O'Donohoe

  “You can’t plan luck,” Polonius finished uncertainly. He edged back to the others.

  Hamlet said, “Surely one of you can do something.”

  Laertes stepped forward irritably. Osric followed.

  Hamlet said, “Good for you. Act like an old lady giving flowers to a young girl.”

  “Ah.” Osric looked crooked, Laertes sickeningly sweet. Osric dropped his pose. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ve never been an old lady and given flowers to a young girl.”

  “Then don’t you think it’s time?”

  Osric waved an arm. “Stop that. What are you saying?”

  Hamlet stood up. “I’m saying that not one of you knows how to be something you’re not. How do you get through the play, if you can’t act?”

  Gertrude said grandly, “I’ve always been queen.”

  “Bravo. For the moment, be a mop.”

  Someone snickered. The queen, hurt, moved back. Gertrude said, “Hamlet, we aren’t being stubborn, and you know I—you know we wish to please you. If you tell us what to do, we’ll do it. I swear.” She looked desperate.

  Hamlet said agreeably, “All right. You play Rosencrantz, Laertes play Guildenstern.”

  There was general muttering. Rosencrantz bowed stiffly. “If we have offended—”

  “No, no, no. In fact, I want to see you play Ophelia and Guildenstern play Gertrude.”

  The cast laughed. Rosencrantz said, “Is this a sketch?”

  “This is being people you’re not, for one entire afternoon. This is what theater really is.”

  Gertrude asked, “Then what do we do every night?”

  “Theater. We pretend to be people we’re not, and please an audience. You, for instance, play Gertrude—”

  “But I am Gertrude.”

  “—And you play Fortinbras—”

  Fortinbras folded his arms. “Who else would I play?”

  Hamlet threw up his hands. “Socrates. Lincoln. Te Wu. A woman with a drug habit. A man with guilty conscience. An angel with a broken heart. God, why can’t you understand?” He leaped on stage. “Fortinbras, you love challenges.”

  “I do” He looked left and right alertly.

  “Good. Play a man who has a crippled leg and is angry about it. Talk to Osric so that we see your anger.”

  He looked narrowly at Hamlet, then strode firmly over to Osric and slapped his shoulder in a manly way. “Good morning. I have a crippled leg. I’m angry about that.”

  “You don’t sound angry.” Hamlet rubbed his eyes.

  Fortinbras turned his head in surprise. “I’m not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not really crippled.”

  “So?”

  Fortinbras stared Hamlet straight in the eye, every inch a military commander. “How can I be someone I’m not?”

  “How? How?” Hamlet swayed upstage to Gertrude. “My dear, I love your dress. Does your husband still like it? I wore that for him when I was half your age—last year.”

  He whirled to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. “I tell ya, it’s a platinum mine: body bags with return postage on them. Why wait? Get one for each of the family the moment they enlist. Boys, we’ll be millionaires.”

  He dropped to his knees, sobbing to Polonius, “Don’t talk that way, Dad. I used to peek in your closet at your Shuttle Squadron uniform. And once for a parade, you actually wore it—it was tight, but you looked like a hero to me—I walked behind, lifting my legs higher than I ever had, miles and miles above the earth, fighting in orbit—can you understand? Can you understand anything?”

  He swaggered over to Osric, the tears gone. “So he’s dead. They’ll take him down to Willy Greene’s and throw him on a coral slab, then pop that dirty shirt off him and saw a Y-cut down his chest and his gut, maybe within six inches of his nuts, and they’ll sell half of him to surgery brokers.

  “Then they’ll stuff him and put a fake tux and tie on him. Ever seen one of those, Manny? I wore one, once, when I was broke. The shirt’s paper, sewn to a paper suit, and it don’t matter, because you only wear it once.” He was breathing hard. “Then they’ll bag him and send him home, one last time, and everybody’ll cry over him one last time, and then they’ll pop him in a vat and he’ll be gone”

  He grabbed Osric’s tunic, half lifting the terrified fop off the stage and shouting into his face. “And what I wanta know is, why do you think I care? Huh? Why should I care about the old bastard, one last time? If I ever cared, if I ever loved him, where the hell have I been for ten years? Why did I come home now—one last time?”

  He released Osric and walked away, not looking at any of them.

  Osric came forward and, though Hamlet couldn’t see him, bowed abjectly. “Sir? My lord? It would please us very, very much if you would let us be ourselves again.”

  Hamlet stared from face to face. They stared back: sullen, frightened, unchangeable.

  He looked away. “Be what you want. Be choiceless; be changeless; be yourselves.”

  He walked away. Before he was out of sight, they were performing line after line of word-perfect Hamlet. It didn’t bother them that Hamlet’s speeches were missing.

  Horatio caught up with him. “My lord?”

  Hamlet waved him away. “They aren’t angels. They’re riot even people. I love them, and they’re nothing but—what the hell were we made for?”

  “My lord, I’m sorry. They did their best.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  Horatio left. Hamlet slumped, barely listening to the distant rehearsal.

  Soon, without realizing he was doing it, he was murmuring his lines in the empty spaces.

  24

  The play went painlessly and automatically, which was all Hamlet now expected. He slumped onstage afterward, and someone called timidly, “I—have you seen Horatio?”

  “I think he left.” Horatio was hiding on-stage in the faint hope that Paulette might still show up. Hamlet, seeing Billy’s face, added, “I’ll tell him any message.”

  “Thank you.” Billy hesitated. “I know it sounds rude, but why are you so nice to me now?”

  “I’m sorry I was ever otherwise,” Hamlet said, and meant it. “Horatio speaks highly of you, and I trust him.”

  Billy blushed. “He’s a kind person. Almost a friend.”

  “Almost,” Hamlet agreed. “What was your message?”

  Billy glanced sideways. Eric was at the prop rack, fingering daggers. “Tell him,” Billy said in a heavy whisper, “that Eric and I are having a final talk tonight, at my place.” Billy was bright pink. “He’ll understand. I wanted him to wish me luck.”

  Hamlet stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Billy.”

  Billy’s grip was surprisingly strong. He said, “Thank you for everything,” then said firmly, “Eric? We have to go now.”

  “I see.” Eric dropped off the stage gracefully, one hand hidden, and strode easily out. Billy limped after.

  Horatio, stepping out from behind the throne platform, watched them go. He had a real heraldic banner (Gertrude had made it) in one hand, so that he could duck behind it. “He’s really going to do it.”

  Hamlet said, “If you say so.”

  Horatio looked at the prop rack. “One of the daggers is missing.” He moved toward the lobby.

  Hamlet caught his arm. “How could Eric take it out? Theater Access would stop him.” He put an arm on Horatio’s shoulders. “It’s probably broken and can’t fly to the rack. Freddy will find it.” He yawned. “I need sleep.”

  Horatio grinned. “‘Good night, sweet prince.’”

  Hamlet left, pleased—and only faintly guilty because tonight he would keep something secret even from Horatio.

  Horatio turned back to the seats. “Mary?”

  She whirled, frightened as always. “You know me?”

  “I was at the ballet.”

  “That’s right.” She came toward the stage, her left hand playing with the fingers on her right.

  “
Didn’t theater security challenge you?” Horatio didn’t think much of security. Apparently, Paulette, he, Eric, and Mary had all found ways to get in.

  She looked disturbed. “It never has. Should it?”

  “Not that I know of.” Horatio braced himself. “We need to talk.” He extended a hand.

  She backed away. “Can’t we talk someplace more private? The hall, perhaps?”

  The hall had scanners, sound walls, and brainwave-sensitive omnilights. Horatio said, “Here is better.” But he gave in. “The hall, then.” He let her go first, to make sure that she, and not he, activated the lights.

  She said, “Globe lights on,” as she stepped into the hall, and flinched as they came on full.

  Horatio watched her blink. “I’m sorry. I can’t turn them down.” He stayed in the niche of the hall, cherishing the illusion that he was invisible to the scanners there, as he was to the light switchscans. He pulled her in, and the lights went out.

  Mary said, “Can’t we sit in the hall?”

  “I like it here. And I love your nails.” Horatio stared, fascinated, into the tiny fingernail pools; occasional particles of blue-white flashed in the turquoise.

  “Thank you,” she said shyly, but didn’t stop shaking. “They’re diatomaceous plankton. At Eric’s I watch them with a micro-eye, but it gives me headaches.”

  “I’ll bet they look nice.”

  “They look alien: diamonds and cones and triangles. I love to watch them.” She sighed, almost at peace. “Everybody ought to have pets.”

  Horatio thought of her and her diatoms, Billy and his plants, Paulette and her flesh bed. Once, life had been something that could love back.

  Mary tapped his palm with one of her fingers. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “You and Eric.” She pulled her hand away. “You’re shivering.” Horatio passed her his cloak.

  “Thank you.” She was still shivering. “I wish it were live-wool.”

  “Androids don’t wear living fibers.” He suspected that Osric wore a few, of outrageous and inappropriate style, next to his skin. “Our clothes were issued to us. Dead clothes are less expensive, I think.”

  “Unless they’re anticulture copies. Some people wear those.”

  “What about Eric?”

  She said falteringly, “He owns live things, but he doesn’t treat them well.”

  “I’m sure.” Horatio took a deep breath. “I wanted to tell you that you’re in danger.”

  “And?”

  He was astonished at the weary flatness, the resignation in her voice. He said, “And you should get out of danger.”

  “Oh”

  “You don’t have to go with him.” Horatio didn’t realize he was echoing Billy’s words to her.

  Her snake necklace constricted; she shivered again. “I do.”

  “There are better men than Eric,” he said firmly. When she didn’t answer, he went on, though he didn’t mean it, “Though he has good qualities.”

  Mary said dully, “Eric Valentin has been and always will be a completely evil and unpleasant man.”

  “Then why—”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!” She said more quietly, in a shaky voice, “When I first met Eric—or he first met me, I don’t remember which—I’d ask myself, ‘if it isn’t love, is it the sex or the danger?’ But it isn’t any of them.”

  “He’s your Free Zone?”

  “Once he was.” She shivered more, the cloak rippling on her bony shoulders. “Now he’s even worse.”

  “Then leave him.”

  “How?” She was crying, her shoulders shaking and the snake tightening for a purchase. “Why can’t I? Why do I stay? What’s happening to me?”

  Horatio knew the glib answers: death wish, passive aggression, guilt and punishment complexes. “I don’t know what’s happening to you.”

  “You wouldn’t. It must be nice, being an android.”

  She coughed. “You’re sure there’s no way to dim the lights?” She stepped out, blinking as the lights came on full. “Lights on dim,” she quavered.

  Horatio said, “We can dim them onstage, but the hall lights are on a special circuit. You can’t—”

  “That’s right,” she said with relief. “I knew that. Hall circuit: Globe lights off.”

  The lights went out.

  Horatio stared from the doorway as she said in the darkness, “Much better.”

  He thought about the hall lights and their instant reaction to human brain waves. He thought of the night when a murder was committed in a hall with no human presence, and of Billy’s dreams—which might have been planted by chip.

  Mary patted the hall floor. “Come back out.”

  The lights would probably go on. “I’d rather not.”

  “Doesn’t being on-stage make you used to the dark?”

  “Please turn the lights back on.”

  “All right. Globe lights up dim.”

  Horatio stepped in as the lights came up. His presence reinforced the signal, and they immediately came on full.

  “I must have got it wrong,” Mary said.

  “No.” Horatio settled in beside her. “I think they’re malfunctioning. Go ahead; try to turn them off now.”

  She tried. They stayed on. “You’re right,” she said sadly, “they’re not working.”

  She was wrong. They had stayed on because Horatio was human and in the hall. Or, Horatio realized, they were working—but Mary was an android.

  He thought about that and put an arm around her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She laughed, the brittle edge back in her voice for a moment. “At this point, why not?”

  “What can you tell me about your childhood?”

  “Oh,” she said, suddenly confused. “Well, I grew up in Hastings-on-Hudson, and I was happy. Not much happened.” Her voice became singsong, a little too cheerful.

  He pushed for details. “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “A brother, Wilmer, and a sister, Janet. They were quite nice. You know, I haven’t thought about them in years. They don’t visit much,” she went on, her eyes vacant. “I Access them at Christmas and their birthdays, and that’s about it. I wonder what they’re doing now.” She smiled brightly.

  “What do you remember best about growing up?”

  She said in the same cheery, empty voice, “We played, we fought, we borrowed each other’s clothes and toys. We had fun. Who would have thought the three of us would live in three different cities? It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” She looked earnestly at Horatio, her mouth open.

  “It does,” Horatio agreed. Asking about her past had triggered a protection system that left her babbling just enough vague information to get her through a conversation and satisfy—or turn aside—any questions.

  But if she were an android, had Eric made her—and why?

  He shifted his arm around her again. He could feel the snake coiled satisfiedly around her neck. “How’s your job?”

  “It’s nothing much. I’m a geometric information analyst. Do you know what that is?” He shook his head, and she went on, “Accounting systems turn formulas into numbers; graphware turns numbers into pictures. I’m trained to scan pictures and compare them to other pictures. It’s faster that using numbers.”

  “Couldn’t thinkware do that?”

  “Of course it could.” She touched his arm tentatively. “Thinkware can almost replace humans, can’t it? But the Geoinfo Analysts have a strong trade guild—it won’t happen.”

  “Why won’t they let it happen?”

  “Because that would end their high salaries. And mine.”

  “What do you do with yours?”

  She was startled. “Most of it goes into my bank account.” She blushed, looking guilty. “I have a joint account with Eric.”

  “I see.” Eric must be doing quite nicely for himself. “And what’s Eric’s job?”

  “I thought you’d know.”

  “We don’t
pay much attention to those things.” Neither Horatio nor Hamlet had seen Eric in any of the labs and hadn’t found his name on the infobases. That didn’t make sense. “Is he some sort of manager?”

  “He’s the head of security,” she said simply. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

  “Just a muscle spasm. I get them. Is he head of building security?”

  “That’s a sub-branch. Eric is head of all security.” She added naively, “If this weren’t his night off, I’d never have spoken to you here.”

  Horatio barely managed not to twitch again. Tonight Billy was confronting Eric, and there was a dagger missing from the prop rack. “Is Eric expecting you tonight?”

  She looked at him bleakly. “Isn’t he always?”

  “Where?”

  “At home—at his home. First he wanted to visit someone. That’s unusual for him, but I didn’t question it, of course. He said it wouldn’t take long.”

  Horatio stood up. “In that case, you’d better go.”

  He walked her through the theater quickly. On the way he asked, “Does Eric know how afraid and trapped you feel?”

  She looked at Horatio, then at the floor. “I think he likes that most of all.”

  She left quickly, trying to drag her feet but failing. Horatio thought briefly about the sort of person who would build a human being for the sole purpose of keeping her frightened and unhappy.

  Then he ran toward the subway. Billy was about to be killed, or worse, he was trying to save the life of an android.

  * * * * *

  Hamlet watched Horatio run away, then moved swiftly to the hall. He thanked God that Horatio was safely outside.

  Ophelia had made this same search at his request. When she had run into someone during it, presumably a human, the human had murdered her memory. This time, Hamlet would trick a human into helping him.

  He knocked at an unmarked but visible door. A voice said tiredly, “Is that thing broken again? Autodoor open.”

  It opened. Freddy looked up from the tiny table where he was drinking coffee. “Oh, no wonder. Hey, my lord, how you doin’?” His grin was tired.

  “Fine.” He stepped in and around to the free side of the table. “Is the job going better?”

  Freddy smiled, but looked embarrassed. “Life isn’t so hard. Sorry this place is so cramped.”